


Stronger Than Iron

by LustOnMyFingers



Series: The Road to the Red Door [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fluff, Jonerys Week Summer 2018, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnant Sex, Public Sex, Self-Reflection, Smut, The Iron Throne, Throne Sex, desecration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers
Summary: For months, Jon and Daenerys had agreed to put their feelings on hold until after the wars were won. Now that the dust has settled, the queen is lured to the Great Hall where the iron throne resides. Amidst the ugly heap of swords sits the man she loves, his eyes flashing with mischief as she approaches...





	Stronger Than Iron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geekyfeminist_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyfeminist_love/gifts).



> Warning: Yep. Another smut fic. Not much plot, what can I say?
> 
> This was written for Jonerys: A Dream of Spring event on Tumblr, for the June 10th—Throne Sex/Throne Room prompts. Tried my best to make what I imagine will be a popular prompt a bit more ...peculiar? :P
> 
> Dedicated to and prompted by geekyfeminist-love! Happy birthday, my love! I hope you like it!

 

Fractured on either side like a cracked egg, Maegor's Holdfast still stood tall in the heart of the Red Keep. As most of the damage had been concentrated on the Great Hall, even the dragonfire did little more than provide a dark char to its bricks. The structure had been safe enough for now, becoming a temporary home to many of her most trusted allies, as well as Jon's, while Winterfell lie singed, broken, and abandoned under mounds of snow. _For now_.

 

The better part of King's Landing had escaped the wrath unleashed upon Aegon's High Hill—the place where only Cersei's staunchest supporters had holed up. Thanks to Jaime Lannister's defection, they had been able to save the city from certain destruction at his sister's hand. Otherwise, the whole of King's Landing might've gone up in green smoke. What to do with the wildfire stores had been another matter entirely, one that would take careful consideration and counsel. Without Euron Greyjoy to skim the waters under the veil of darkness, the deadly green liquid sat afloat the Narrow Sea, guarded at a safe distance by a small portion of what remained of her Unsullied army.

 

After months of near-constant conflict, safety was a strange feeling for Daenerys. It was a memory she convinced herself she'd known as a girl—a feeling she'd since chased all her life. Only after having won it, had she been sure it was all new to her. She reveled in it as much as she could, for she knew it was only a matter of time before it, too, would be but a memory.

 

Victory hadn't come cheaply. It was a price paid in heavy losses from every corner of the realm—from many of her dearest friends and allies, to large swaths of men and women of every ilk. From mounds of both fresh and ancient corpses that littered the landscape, to delicate, stealthy missions conducted beneath the streets of King's Landing to disarm the _Mad Queen_. Without a certain squid prince, rabid hound, jilted twin, and _no one_ —Daenerys might've never emerged victorious.

 

While the dragon had been, undoubtedly, the most powerful piece on the cyvasse table—Daenerys knew all ten pieces had their place atop the board, that a dragon could not win, alone. The dragon needed support from rabble to spearmen, from horses to king.

 

 _Jon_.

 

Daenerys knew exactly where to find the most intriguing man she'd ever met—in the very last place he wished to be. As she made her way to the Great Hall in search of him, the predictive words he'd uttered well over a year ago on Dragonstone rang in her ears— _I need your help, and you need mine_. How right he'd been. And how lucky she was that he'd emerged from war twice over, _mostly_ unscathed.

 

Once the city built by her ancestor had been released from its bindings, she found herself longing to be released from hers. If she were being honest, ever since arriving at Dragonstone, Daenerys had found herself disillusioned with rule. It was Jon's clear distaste for it and her taste for _him_ that, combined, made her yearn for the one thing she'd never truly had before—the one thing only he could provide— _a family_.

 

It was no secret, especially now, that she was with child. And though they'd agreed to put their feelings for each other on hold until after the wars were won, the rumors were unavoidable. For nearly five months, now, they've kept their relationship strictly formal—a Warden and his queen. Though it was clear to everyone around them that they'd fallen in love. In an effort to calm the concerns of their allies, they'd agreed to cast aside their relationship. Until now.

 

After dismissing her personal guards, Daenerys entered the Great Hall—ruinous and dredged with ash and soot and snow. Upon impact, small slushy flakes fell and swiftly melted on her hair as well as her woolen dress. The sound of her boots had muffled in the strange mixture as she followed the much larger indent of his footprints up to where he sat on display—looking every inch the king he wasn't—Aegon Targaryen, son of her brother, Rhaegar, and father to her child.

 

Perhaps had she not already guessed his intention—the bold act might've offended her. Instead, all she could do was smirk, resisting the urge to reward him by baring her teeth in a full-fledged smile. The echo of a distant dripping, somewhere from the exposed and shattered beams above, seemed to disguise her heavy breathing as she clambered up the stairs, resisting the urge to clutch her swollen belly to spare her back some of the pain.

 

On the fourth step, she paused to catch her breath, trying her best to hide that the short ascent had been enough to leave her dizzy and winded. Jon gave her a quizzical look as he posed—a regal slouch with legs parted and hands draped over the armrests, Longclaw faithfully placed upright beside him. Along the perimeter of the room were a collection of _troublingly_ large paw prints that might've sent anyone else running from the Hall. Ghost could neither be seen nor heard as he lurked about.

 

"I thought this _rightful heir_ business was of little consequence to you, my lord. Do you mean to declare yourself king?"

 

"I was only keepin' your seat warm for you, my queen."

 

Upon the smooth delivery of his reply, Jon rose from his seat the way a lord would for his lady—the simple gesture enough to make her insides flutter. Though she offered a playful scoff, there was no denying the effect his gruff words had on her in that moment. They were finally together, finally alone.

 

Daenerys climbed two more steps, and Jon descended one to match. There they stood, together, on either side of the throne, both examining it in silence for several moments before Jon's voice echoed throughout the Hall.

 

"How do you feel?"

 

"Exhausted," she answered honestly. "And sore..."

 

Jon chuckled, "I meant... how do you feel _here?_ Before you lies the throne you fought your way across Essos for. Now it's yours."

 

Daenerys tilted her head, inspecting the seat of swords she'd built up in her head over the years. It was truly unimpressive.

 

"I must admit, it pales with you beside it."

 

Jon averted his eyes, pushing his lips together in an effort to dodge the full impact of her compliment. Though the room was dark, she could tell her words had brought color to his cheeks. She smiled, hoping he'd caught the underlying implication.

 

"A throne made of mangled and melted swords in a room to match is not quite what I had in mind in all the years I dreamt of this moment."

 

Jon drew his brows together in a show of sympathy, as if he were searching for the right thing to say.

 

"I've been here once before, you know," she admitted after a moment.

 

"You've been in _Essos_ all your life."

 

"And it was in _Qarth_ ," she nodded in agreement, "That I was lured into a vision of the throne room, and its state was exactly as it is now—a ruin. It came true."

 

" _Lured_ into a vision? How do you mean?"

 

"By a warlock."

 

" _Warlock?_ "

 

"Yes."

 

"Witches and warlocks and visions and curses..." he playfully mumbled, moving over the slush-covered step to bridge the short distance between them. "It's no wonder there are whispers the queen is going mad..."

 

Daenerys snickered. "Perhaps I _am_ mad, Jon Snow."

 

With a sharp exhale, she stepped away from him, regaining her distance, and a bit of her sanity along with it, as she encircled the grievously ugly heap of misshapen swords.

 

"Since I trust you will keep this between us, I will admit it. I care not for the throne at all. Nor do I care for King's Landing, or for _Dragonstone_ , for that matter... I've had enough of these large, cold stone castles."

 

"What is it you care for, then?"

 

"Meeting the child in my belly," she smiled, stopping a few feet shy of him. Rubbing the swell at her waist, she closed her eyes. "The cool grass between my toes on a warm summer's day... and lemons. _Iced_ lemons."

 

"Well, you've got a few months, yet, until we meet our child. And who knows how long until the grass grows anew. And _lemons_?" he paused to consider. "Well, we'd have to go-"

 

"-to _Dorne_ , I know," she sighed before flashing him a pitiful look. "Would it be so bad?"

 

Her brief regression had coaxed a rare fit of laughter from her usually-sullen Warden. Unable to help herself, she let her eyes drift over his face—appreciating the way his eyes turned to crescent slits, and how the skin around them wrinkled. Afterward, he slipped right back into the dreamy stare that turned her knees wobbly.

 

"Might there be anythin' else you care for in the more immediate future... or, _vicinity_ , perhaps?"

 

"Are you attempting to entice me, my lord?"

 

"Only if it's workin'," he grinned. " _Your Grace_."

 

"I'm almost ashamed to admit that it is, despite the poor choice in setting."

 

"Poor?" he frowned, taking a glance at the dismal emptiness that stretched before them. "It's perfect."

 

" _Hardly_."

 

As she scoffed, Jon moved closer, wrapping his arms around her from behind, deliberately nestling them between her breasts and belly. It was the first proper touch he'd given her in months, and she melted right into it. It was an embrace worth saving the world for. _Twice over_.

 

"I heard you were meltin' it down."

 

" _So?_ "

 

"Let us defile it, first."

 

Convinced he was joking, Dany chuckled. When Jon refrained from joining in her laughter, she felt a pang of concern he might actually be _serious_. And then she felt another sort of pang low in her belly. _No,_ she thought, trying to dissuade herself. _Not here_.

 

"I don't know that we should-"

 

"We should," he insisted. "We _really_ should."

 

" _Jon_ ..." she hesitated as his nose nuzzled its way through her mess of silver waves to find her neck. Already overwhelmed by the sensation, Daenerys barely managed to choke out her next word. " _Here?_ "

 

"Yes, here."

 

"I don't even know _how_ we would-"

 

"I do," he interrupted, perhaps more confident than he'd ever sounded. "I've spent the last few months waitin' for the moment I'd get you to myself again."

 

"Have you even recovered," she couldn't help but pause as he resumed kissing along her neck and jawline, "From your injuries?"

 

"I'll be fine, but I won't be if we wait any longer."

 

" _Any_ longer?" she challenged. "You can't wait until we retire for the night?"

 

"I can't," he admitted with a sigh. He spun her around, possessively pulling her into an even tighter embrace as his eyes bore straight into her, black as pitch. "I'd imagined it on damn near every surface, since there was no tellin' _when_ the moment would present itself."

 

"Every surface? Even the _throne?_ "

 

"Oh, I can make it work."

 

"Even with this big belly?"

 

" _Especially_ with that belly of yours. I don't ever want to see it flat again."

 

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves..."

 

"I wouldn't _dare_ ," his voice was hoarse with lust. The musky scent of his skin enveloped her as he leaned in so close she could feel his breath against her cheeks. Prying his right hand from her waist, Jon brought it to her mouth, brushing her bottom lip with his thumb. She shivered.

 

As Dany halfheartedly pulled away from him, he caught her by the lips, the bristly hairs framing his mouth abrading her skin as they kissed. Unable to help the soft moan that followed as his tongue found hers, she threw care and caution away as his hands wandered over her dress, masterfully unfastening the enclosures at her neck before forcing open clasp of her chain, letting it fall and swing limply at her hip.

 

She pulled away again, this time to help him loosen the straps of his cloak. Once rid of the cumbersome garment, he draped it over the throne's armrest before seeking further assistance in removing his armor. Piece by piece it fell away, until Jon was left in only an undertunic, trousers, and boots.

 

With an eager glint in his eye, Jon began roughly yanking her stiff dress apart and down her shoulders. He held her waist as she stepped out of it, kicking it over the step. Dany had been reduced to just a thin linen shift and boots. _I can't believe I'm doing this_ , her internal voice rang in disbelief.

 

When his fingers clenched the fabric of her shift, she clasped her hands over his to stop him.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"It's cold..."

 

"It won't be for long," he assured her. The air had felt strangely balmy as fat, wet snowflakes kept falling through the broken roof and into her hair.

 

"I'd... I'd rather keep it on."

 

With a sigh, he dropped his hands from underneath hers. He bunched up either side of his undertunic and lifted it straight over his head, exposing his perfectly chiseled chest—slashes and all. Allowing her only a moment to gawk, Jon pulled her into another embrace, gently stroking her back.

 

"I need to feel your body against mine," he whispered.

 

And as the skin on their arms brushed together, she knew he'd been right, especially now—since, through only two thin fabrics, she could feel his hardness pressing right into her lower belly.

 

"I'll cover you with my cloak," he promised. "Just in case."

 

The soft strokes had lulled her, turned her mute, so she nodded her consent against his bare shoulder. Every single tooth within her mouth ached to sink into his warm skin—but he pulled away too fast. Before she knew it, her shift came over her head and she was left stripped completely bare, save for her boots.

 

Jon's lip quivered as he drank in the sight of her, all the while loosening his trousers. His eyes dragged over her breasts before falling on her belly, urging his hands to follow suit. The moment they were free of his laces, they'd found her skin—fingers fanning out over the swell, gently as if she were made of glass. The waistband of his trousers fell below his waist, exposing his hip's furrow, and providing a nice peek at his nest of curls.

 

His eyes misted as he knelt before her, his hands never leaving her. Daenerys could hear his breath hitch as he rolled his forehead across her belly before pressing his ear to her skin. _This shouldn't be so arousing_ , she told herself, feeling a familiar trickling between her legs.

 

Once he'd had his fill, he unclasped his arms to explore again. He started first by kneading her bottom as he trailed open-mouthed kisses all along her swollen belly. The blood drained from Dany's head and left her dizzy as she softly cried, each swipe and nibble threatened to topple her.

 

Just as she parted her lips to protest, his hand slipped between her legs. Dany clutched his shoulders in an effort to brace herself for his skilled touch—the same touch that could completely unravel her in only a moment's notice.

 

With a shuddering groan, Jon's fingers slipped between her sopping cleft with an audible squish. After a pleased sigh, he whispered something she couldn't quite decipher... something that sounded an awful lot like... _baby seals_ ? _That can't be right_ , she thought.

 

"What'd you say?"

 

" _Nothin'_ ," he rose with a grin, his mischievous expression conveniently wreathed in shadows.

 

Jon climbed the final stair before the throne, retrieving his cloak before extending his hand to help Daenerys up. After pulling his trousers down to his shins he took a seat, letting out a small yelp once his backside met the cold iron. Dany snickered, trying to determine the best course of action to climb atop him.

 

"Careful," he warned, helping to guide her booted left leg up and over his thighs.

 

Hovering above him awkwardly, she waited as he draped his cloak over the front of her body like a bib, her weary heart pounding away. Once covered, Dany lifted herself up on shaking legs. His hands wandered over her hips and her round belly as she took his cock in her palm.

 

She taunted him with slow, soft strokes before teasing the tip at her entrance, delighting in his soft groans of both anticipation and discomfort. His hands traveled over her belly and up to her breasts, playfully pinching at her nipples in retaliation.

 

Yielding, she fed him, inch by inch, to her aching hollow—stopping only as her thighs came to a rest upon his. Together, they sighed, his breath a soft caress against her neck. Delicately, Jon pushed the tumble of silver hair out of the way before pulling her against his chest—instantly sating the desire she'd held for months— _skin on skin_.

 

His dark cloak rippled like a river as he pawed her beneath it, following the curve of her belly down between parted legs. Again, he acquainted himself with her tenderest spots—teasing feather-light touches.

 

Though he'd encouraged her movements, her burdensome belly allowed for little more than simple rocking. Jon's free hand came to a rest on her hip, pushing her further into him and, somehow, finding more length with which to intrude and stretch her. Every pitiful cry he'd earned seemed only to encourage him. The dull blades at the front of the armrest were still sharp enough to scrape at her skin as she spread her legs wider to accommodate a second hand. Dany wriggled as he plucked her like a bard would his harp.

 

Not even a full minute had passed before he'd reduced her to a series of quakes so violent, he had to hold her in place as she rode them out. With each wave, her insides squeezed him in gratitude, pitiful groans spilling from her mouth and resounding throughout the broken room. Softly, Jon chuckled behind her, finally freeing her from the assault of his fingers. Every muscle had turned to gelatin, the near-constant pain at the base of her spine simply melting away—had he not held her down, she might've even floated away.

 

He allowed for only a moment of recovery before scooping her back up into his arms and scooting them forward on the seat of the throne.

 

"Hold on tight," he commanded.

 

Dany scrambled to regain the use of her arms enough to grab onto the various pommels of the armrests. Before she'd even found a proper grip, his hands had snaked under her thighs, lifting her by a few inches.

 

Jon began thrusting up into her in slow, even strokes, impressively supporting her weight all the while. It wasn't until she'd found a good enough grip that he began his full assault. After he'd established a comfortable rhythm, Jon would let her fall onto his cock with each buck of his hips. Again, he'd lift her, only to drop her full weight back down on him—she was helpless as a rag doll, completely at his mercy as he continually split her insides apart.

 

After retrieving his hands, he let her fall a final time. Jon wrapped his arms around Daenerys, plunging his length within her, as deeply as he could manage. With a final enervated grunt, he jerked inside of her, spilling his warmth at the mouth of her womb before collapsing into the jagged bed of swords.

 

Still locked together, Dany tumbled backward onto him, lulled further into bliss with the rise and fall of his every breath. Inevitably, Jon's hands had claimed her belly again, as if drawn to it like a magnet. They lie there several moments, little more than a heap of burning, clammy flesh. Finally, their child had greeted them, perhaps stirring due to their reckless show of affection.

 

"That's _her!_ " he exclaimed, beaming with excitement.

 

Daenerys clasped her hands over Jon's, helping to better guide him to where he could best feel the kicks. Contentedly, he hummed against her ear.

 

"What makes you so sure it's a girl?"

 

"I'm not, not _really_ ," he admitted. "I'd like one, though."

 

"Would a boy disappoint you?"

 

Jon groaned, "Makin' a child with you is the furthest I've ever been from disappointment."

 

Daenerys weaved her fingers through his as they held her belly.

 

"If our baby is a boy," he continued, "Then we'll get to work on a girl. If it's a girl, we'll get to work on a boy."

 

She couldn't help but laugh. "So you were serious earlier—when you said you didn't want to see my belly flat again?"

 

"Half-serious. It can be flat when you're old and grey."

 

"Is that so?"

 

"But even then, I'll feed you so many sugar-frosted lemon cakes that you get nice and plump," he snickered, pinching at her side.

 

Dany shook with laughter. "Nothing in the world sounds better," she said. And she'd meant it.

 

With a painful groan, Jon peeled himself and Daenerys from the throne—their skin indented all over from the malformed swords. Wriggling out from underneath her, Jon helped Dany to a sitting position before tugging his trousers back up and knotting the laces together.

 

As he fished her undergarment from the strewn clothes all along the steps, she giggled again.

 

"What is it now?" he asked as he helped maneuver her arms and head through the holes of her dull linen shift.

 

"This is the first time I've properly sat on the throne—and it happens to be bare-assed and in a puddle of our mess."

 

With a smirk, he gestured for her to rise. Feeling weak and high, she could barely stand as Jon used his cloak to wipe her down before attentively pulling the shift over both her belly and her bottom.

 

Before fussing with his own clothing, he retrieved her dress and helped her into it, expertly retracing his steps as he fastened her back up. Likewise, she helped him dress—not because he needed it, but because she knew he'd flash the same dewy-eyed look he'd get whenever she so much as put her hands on him.

 

Once they were decent, they stood before the throne again. Dany had felt, somehow, even more disenchanted from the sight of it after having _defiled_ it. In fact, the sight of it downright disgusted her—acting as the very symbol of centuries of greed, anguish, and betrayal throughout Westeros. She wanted no part of it. She wanted it destroyed for good.

 

Longclaw remained upright against the throne, despite all the jostling it'd undergone. Dany climbed the final step once more, boldly unsheathing the sword. By now, she knew full well all of its capabilities, having seen it wielded by Jon in fight after fight—with human and monster, alike. No weapon could withstand a blade infused with frozen fire.

 

"Dany?" he inquired, his voice drowned out by her rapid heartbeat.

 

With both hands gripped tightly around the hilt, she held Longclaw aloft like a greatsword. She channeled the rage of her father, Aerys, the gall of Cersei Lannister, the devastation for those she'd lost all along her journey—and with a deafening cry, the blade came crashing down on the throne, sending a small spray of metal shards into the air. Jon shielded his face from the impact. Daenerys closed her eyes.

 

The superior steel of his sword had sliced right through the iron monstrosity, like a hot knife through butter—leaving an ugly, jagged gash right down its center, all the way to its seat. Hunched over, she heaved to recover from the sudden, unexpected act of aggression.

 

After a moment, Jon softly spoke, "What a waste it was to have you on dragonback."

 

As she turned, perplexed, he continued, "We should've given you a sword and put you on the battlefield."

 

Daenerys merely rolled her eyes at him.

 

"Maybe next time," he grinned.

 

"If we can help it, there won't _be_ a next time."

 

With the blade pointed toward the steps below, she handed Longclaw back to Jon. He returned the sword to his scabbard before tying the belt around his waist and draping his soiled cloak over his arm.

 

"Dany?"

 

She raised her brows curiously as she awaited further question.

 

"That vision you had of the throne room..." he hesitated, his gaze dropping to the mess of ashen mud and slush. "What else did you see?"

 

"I saw myself walk away from the throne, toward my family."

 

Jon met her gaze with two wide eyes filled with hope. When he offered his hand to her, she dodged it, instead, opting to loop her arm through his. Wordlessly, they made their way through the Great Hall, walking with a slower gait to account for Jon's temporary limp. From out of nowhere, Ghost appeared in the archway, waiting to escort them.

 

Daenerys took one last look at the throne behind her, and still, she felt nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> (Oh, and yes, it's the throne from the show, not the books!)


End file.
